


a stone heart is broken

by littletrenchcoatangel



Series: Her Sweet Kiss (the story of a lady bard and her idiot witcher) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Feelings, Fem!Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, it's been forever so i've forgotten how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletrenchcoatangel/pseuds/littletrenchcoatangel
Summary: Geralt doesn't cry, but it's a near thing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Her Sweet Kiss (the story of a lady bard and her idiot witcher) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605256
Comments: 23
Kudos: 444





	a stone heart is broken

**Author's Note:**

> been a while since i've done this so, idk, enjoy
> 
> first time writing for the witcher fandom, pls be kind  
> based primarily on the show, but also some stuff from the books/games
> 
> loosely based on the prompt "I drunkenly tried to fight you and knocked myself out but you were kind enough to take care of me till I woke up"

The path down the mountain is far more tedious than the path up, but Geralt walks it anyway because it’s what he deserves.

There are three women alive that destiny has seen fit to bind him to, and he has disappointed them all.

Of course, Yen had been right – what right did he have to lecture her about parenthood, when there was a child in Cintra waiting for a witcher that might never come? What right did he have to lecture her about choice, when hers had been stripped from her, and he refused to make one?

He trudges down the mountain, thinking over all of the things he wishes he’d never said, and never done – spares a brief thought for Renfri, wherever she ended up – and can’t help the relieved sigh he lets out when he finally reaches the bottom and reunites with Roach.

“At least you don’t hate me,” he tells her. She butts her head against his chest, as if to say, ‘it’s a near thing,’ but doesn’t bite or kick him as he secures her tack, so he considers it a win.

He doesn’t necessarily mean to stop at the inn, but he is tired and angry and desperate for a drink.

The sound of a familiar song, sung by a familiar voice, should be enough to turn him away, but the desire for a drink wins out, and he is, apparently, a glutton for punishment.

She doesn’t see him as he enters, but Geralt sees her. Her back is to him as she wanders around the room, a surprisingly jovial lilt to her voice as she sings. Her golden hair is loose and wild, draping down her back, the shine of it dimmed from her time on the road. Her signature red ribbons, usually holding her hair in place, are tied around her small wrists, similarly stained with mud.

She doesn’t look upset, when she spins to spare attention to the patrons she’s neglecting. She doesn’t look worried or heartbroken or any of the other things he thought she might be, in the wake of Geralt’s words on the mountain. She looks, surprisingly, happy. She doesn't look as though she's trekked her way up a mountain, or watched three people die and then come back to life. She looks as though the past few days never happened, ready to go on a new adventure, meet new people, compose new songs.

To her credit, when she spots him, only a misplaced note reveals her surprise. She recovers with a wink to a nearby drunkard, ignoring Geralt entirely as she finishes her song. She wanders to the bar, lute in hand, where a man hands her a pint and loops an arm around her waist. She laughs at something he says, leaning into his side, and his arm slips lower, hand curling around the curve of her –

Geralt turns away, then, amber eyes searching for an empty seat to hide in and drink away the thoughts in his head.

The innkeeper, a short, balding man, brings him a pint of ale without prompting, and when he looks up in confusion, he nods to where Jaskier is still resting against the bar. The man’s hands have wandered back up to her back, caressing her beneath her shirt. Geralt’s skin crawls at the sight, watching Jaskier’s blouse tighten and ride up her back, revealing dirty, callused fingers clawing at pale skin, ragged fingernails leaving red tracks in their wake.

She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even look at the man groping at her as she drinks yet another pint he offers, but Geralt knows it’s from her.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia, aren’t you?” someone asks, and Geralt winces, sparing only a sideways glance for the man leaning across from a nearby table.

“That woman there,” the man continues, and it’s clear who he means. “She’s been singin’ about you, and none too kindly, I might add.”

Geralt grunts, fist tightening on his tankard as he takes a drink.

“Seems to me like the mighty witcher has broken the poor bard’s heart,” the man adds, and he’s standing now, leaning over the table, his face inching closer to Geralt’s. He can taste the ale on every exhale. “And I think a woman like that-”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a familiar voice interrupts, the man’s voice cut off with a half-shriek as his shirt is gripped tightly from the back, choking him. Jaskier appears at his back, her hand curled in his shirt, dragging him a step away from the table.

“He’s not fond of talkative people,” she continues, and she pushes the man away to another table before he can respond. He swears gruffly, tripping over his toes, but goes where he is pushed.

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier says, and twists on the spot to walk away.

Geralt catches her by the arm before he can think better of it, his massive hand engulfing her wrist, and then some.

“Jaskier,” he says, and he doesn’t mean for it to be a plea, but it is.

“Fuck off, Geralt,” she says, and the venom in her voice shocks his fingers loose. She wrenches her hand from his, blue eyes as unforgiving as ice when she glares at him.

“Jaskier, wait-” he tries again, but she’s already gone.

She doesn’t look at him, or speak to him, or come near him during the next hour, but each time Geralt’s tankard runs dry, she sends a new one to replace it. She drinks more than her fill, never appearing to pay a single coin for it, passing herself from new stranger to new stranger as soon as the former stops buying her drinks.

Geralt watches a number of men draw her close by the waist, fingers catching in her hair as they whisper undoubtedly filthy words in her ears. Each time, she laughs, a gentle hand on a foreign chest to create distance, and shakes her head.

“I’m still having fun,” he hears her say when she is close enough to be overheard, but not so close she can’t ignore Geralt’s presence. “Would you deprive a woman a night on the town?”

Once, when one of the men forces his tongue down her throat, Geralt’s entire body tenses, ready to draw his sword and jump to her defence. He doesn’t need to, though, because, in an instant, the man is pulling away, wide-eyed and panting.

“I said no,” she says coldly, getting to her feet, and it’s then that Geralt sees the cause of the man’s concern – a gilded dagger, pressed to the inside of his thigh, perilously close to his manhood.

The man doesn’t move – barely breathes – and Jaskier sheathes the dagger at her waist once more. She waves to the innkeeper for another pint, and, much to Geralt’s surprise, approaches the witcher’s table.

“You’re an ass,” she says kindly and plonks herself down opposite him. “What the fuck are you still doing here?” Before Geralt can respond, she laughs, fingers trailing delicately over a whorl in the wood of the tabletop. “In need of more shit shovelling, are we?”

“I didn’t-”

“Spare me your empty apologies, Geralt. I don’t need you to mend my broken heart.”

Geralt swallows, waits for more, and when nothing comes, he sighs. “Then what do you want?”

“What do I want?” she asks, and her cold eyes meet his. “What do I want? I _want_ ,” she says, teeth bared and vicious as her voices rises in volume, “my _drink!_ ”

As if summoned, the innkeeper appears at her side, an apology on his tongue and two tankards in his hands.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, reaching for both with wiggling fingers like a child. “Much better.”

She drinks at the first greedily, sloshing half of it down her front in her haste, as if she is dying of thirst. The brunt of it cascades down her chest, darkening the light fabric and causing it to stick to her collarbone and breasts.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Geralt asks, eyeing her fingers as they curl around the second tankard.

Her blonde eyebrows rise impossibly high on her forehead, her eyes comically wide as she stares at him.

“Enough?” she asks. “Have I had enough?”

She scoffs, sloppily downing a mouthful of ale before slamming the tankard down on the table hard enough that it creaks under the force.

“Yes, Geralt, I _have_ had enough. Enough of yours, and every other man’s, ridiculous, preposterous, nonsensical _bullshit_!” The last word is a near-shout that draws the attention of some nearby patrons.

“Those all mean the same thing,” Geralt says.

“Of course they do!” Jaskier shouts back, louder than before, drawing the eye of every person present.

“Jaskier-” Geralt warns, eyeing them.

“No,” she says. “Shut up. You got to say your bit, and now it’s my turn, Geralt.”

She gets to her feet, leaning towards him over the table, which creaks again under her weight.

“You sit there, with your stupid face, and your stupid body, and your stupid swords, and you act like – like we owe you something, just because you exist. Like your mutations make you better than any other bastard who completes a service in exchange for coin.” She clambers forward against the table, paying no mind to her audience, and gestures crudely at him. “You, all of you, the whole stupid lot of you cock-wielding _pricks_ act like that thing between your legs entitles you to some – to some extra level of respect, some modicum of servitude, and I’ve _had it_! I’ve had it with men who think they’re above reproach, who think they can do whatever they want and _say_ whatever they want and expect women to just – just fall at their feet and suck their cocks like it’s a _gift_ rather than a _chore_!”

A few women nearby whoop in support, raising their drinks and shouting their agreement, and nearby men shush them and shy from them in equal amounts. Jaskier, emboldened by their cries, scrambles onto the table, turning to her listeners and raising her tankard in a mock toast.

“We women deserve more than the scraps of affection you deign to give us, and we certainly deserve acknowledgement for the sacrifices we make for you sorry bastards. We give you all that you desire at the cost of ourselves and you return the favour by occasionally fucking us hard enough that we forget your cocks are the only worthwhile things about you!”

Jaskier, on her creaking pedestal, erupts into harsh laughter, joined and scorned in tandem by the crowd around her. A few men glare at her, a few women stare at her in admiration, and Geralt hears more than sees the table start to bow beneath the weight of the bard.

“Jaskier,” he warns. “Get down.”

“You!” she shouts, and turns quickly to point an accusatory finger at his face, walking down the length of the table to get closer to him. The speed of her movement throws her off balance slightly, and her finger ends up poking into the soft skin of his cheek, but she continues, undeterred. “You’re the worst of them all, witcher.”

“You traipse across the Continent, saving lives and ruining them in equal measure, never sparing a moment to consider the destruction you leave in your wake. You go where there is a need, but you leave a worse one in its place!”

“Perhaps,” says someone nearby. “This is better suited as a _private-”_

“Shut up,” Geralt and Jaskier growl, together.

Jaskier takes a long drink from her tankard, emptying it, and drops it with a thud to the table beneath her. The plank it lands on splinters and squeaks.

“Look,” she says, voice shockingly quiet in the wake of all her shouting, swiping at the mess on the side of her mouth. “I know it’s all _bullshit,_ that witchers don’t care, or have feelings, or whatever, but I thought – I thought we were _friends_ , you bastard. And then you just – you – _fuck you_ ,” she grinds out finally.

“Jaskier, get _down_ ,” Geralt says, pleading, gentle, softer than every instance prior, but she ignores him, spinning on her heel to stalk back to the other end of the table, intent on seeing her rant through to the bitter end.

“You, Geralt of Rivia, are a-” but Geralt never finds out what he is, because the table beneath Jaskier chooses that moment to give way.

The plank under her left foot snaps under her weight, causes her to drop unceremoniously through the resulting hole, her leg and trousers both getting torn up by the splintered wood. She screams at the shock and the pain, but it is short-lived, as the motion drives her body forward, and she smacks her head roughly against the nearby support beam, knocking her unconscious in an instant.

The crowd, for all that they had been drawn in by every word of her ranting, turns away when she falls, unconcerned with her wellbeing now that she is no longer entertaining them.

“Damnit, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, helpless to do anything but stare at her prone form.

It takes some work, and the help of a nearby drunk, to remove her from the confines of the destroyed table, careful to keep her injured leg clear of further damage.

Geralt pulls her against his chest, one arm curled beneath her knees, the other wrapped around her shoulders. He adjusts her gently, trying not to jostle her leg, and moves until her head is resting against his neck. She moans weakly but doesn’t open her eyes.

“Her room,” he asks of the innkeeper, who is staring at Jaskier with obvious concern.

“Now, I don’t think I should be-”

“Her _room_ ,” he says again, teeth bared.

The innkeeper swallows heavily, but nods.

“Up the stairs, third door on the right,” he says. Then, “If any harm comes to her, I’ll-”

“No harm will come to her that she doesn’t bring upon herself,” Geralt promises, and turns away.

He carries the bard up the stairs, twisting sideways to avoid knocking her into the railing, and shoulders his way through the third door on the right.

He sets Jaskier on the bed as gently as he can, placing a pillow beneath her head and another beneath her ankle to raise the injury.

He stares down at her for a single moment, wondering what to do, and then sighs. He kneels at the bedside and reaches a hand out to her neck to check her pulse. Finding it steady, he shifts down the bed to inspect her leg.

The fabric of her trousers is torn in strips, stuck with blood to her leg around the wound. Splinters litter the torn edges of her skin, most of the scratches superficial but a few deeper marks will require a salve and a bandage to prevent infection. Not dire enough to necessitate a doctor or healer, her injuries are minor enough that Geralt can tend to them himself, so he resigns himself to the onerous task of removing splinters for half the night.

He stands, only to lean over her again as he reaches a hand up to Jaskier’s face, brushing a few strands of hair from her forehead.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he tells her, knowing she can’t hear him.

She sighs, as though sleeping, and turns her head towards his hand, but doesn’t wake.

On his way back from Roach with his pack, his armour removed and tucked safely in her saddlebags, he spots Jaskier’s lute, leaning haphazardly against a stool at the bar. Knowing it’s one of the few things she cares deeply for, he makes to collect it, and almost has it in his hand when a stout figure blocks his path.

“Witcher,” the man greets, and Geralt has to hold his breath as the stench of ale and rotting food reach his nose.

Geralt doesn’t respond, simply stares down at the man, waiting for the inevitable thoughtless drivel to spew from his mouth.

“That girl don’t fancy you,” he begins, tilting his chin in the direction of the stairs. “And from ‘er songs, you don’t fancy her much, neither. So, tell me why any of us down here should let you up there alone with her?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Geralt admits, sidestepping the man so that he can reach for the lute again. The man blocks him, stepping with him and placing a surprisingly gentle hand into his chest, jostling his shoulder slightly, but moving him no further.

“Aye,” the man says. “I shouldn’t.” And Geralt prepares himself for a fight, or an argument, but to his shock, the man turns and retrieves Jaskier’s lute _for him_ , handing it gently to him as though it were a child and not an instrument. “But I will,” he continues. “Because it’s plain by your face that you care for her, and I trust you more with a helpless woman than I do any of these sorry bastards.”

“I-” Geralt starts, his fingers curling around the lute. “Thank you.”

He moves to take the lute, but the man’s grip holds steady, and he uses it to pull himself closer to Geralt, staring into his eyes.

“She’s a good woman,” he says, gesturing to the stairs again. “That much is clear. And whatever you did, it’s hurt her. But she saw fit to talk to you, and that means she’ll forgive you. But, witcher,” he warns, and the stench of his breath forces Geralt to close his eyes. “A woman like that only has so much forgiveness in her, and whatever you’ve done to her will cost you a lot of it.”

“I don’t expect her forgiveness,” Geralt says honestly, and he opens his eyes to find the man a respectable distance away again, his hands tucked loosely into his pants.

“Good,” the man says. “That means you might deserve it.”

When he returns to the room, Jaskier hasn’t moved, and the pillow beneath her leg has started to stain with her blood.

He rests her lute against the dresser by the door, swapping it for the pitcher of water and the bowl on top of it, and approaches the bed.

He rests his pack by the foot of the bed and kneels beside it, digging through it until he finds a roll of bandages and the vial he’s looking for. Satisfied, he turns back to Jaskier. He rips a scrap of cloth from the bandages, dipping it into the pitcher and wringing it out before he takes it to Jaskier’s leg, wiping clean what he can, removing some of the larger splinters and strips of fabric and dropping them into the empty bowl at his side.

He works steadily, careful not to press too hard against the open wound, only removing fragments of her pants and wood that he can grab easily, so as not to cause her unnecessary pain.

She wakes, sometime after he has cleaned away the last of the dried blood, but doesn’t say anything, and Geralt continues to work quietly, letting the sound of her steady breathing calm him.

When he pulls at a particularly deep splinter, she winces, and he sighs, fingers stilling against her skin.

“This will hurt,” he says, pointlessly, finally turning to look at her. “But they need to come out.”

She raises herself to her elbows, looking down her body at him, and she nods.

“I have tweezers,” she says, gesturing towards the dresser. “In my pack.”

Geralt nods and goes to retrieve them. He finds her pack in the top drawer, only has to dig through it for a moment before he finds the tweezers, and when he turns back to return to the bed, he stops short.

Jaskier is staring up at him, her eyes wide and wild, red-rimmed as a few tears slide down her cheeks.

She sniffles, wiping at her face roughly when he sees her and shakes her head.

“Go on, then,” she says, resolutely not looking away from her injured leg. “Get it over with.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries, and isn’t surprised when she shakes her head.

“Just – just fix me,” she orders, still not looking up. “Then…”

Geralt nods, even though she can’t see him, and smiles weakly.

“Okay,” he says, and does as he’s told.

It takes him half an hour to clean and bandage Jaskier’s wounds, and he checks it over three times for lingering splinters before she huffs and offers to wrap it herself. He sits back when he’s finished, ass resting on his heels as his knees dig uncomfortably into the wood of the floor, and stares at the muted yellow of the bandage against her pale skin. Absently, he’s aware that she’s moving, but his eyes stay glued to the blood-stained pillow, even after her legs disappear from view.

He’s surprised, then, when she reaches a hand out to his face, suddenly opposite him on the bed, her uninjured leg a warm weight against his side.

She wipes what might be dirt from his cheek, staring down at him with a small, sad smile, and shakes her head around a quiet laugh.

“Thank you,” she says, and Geralt breaks.

He must look a sight, he thinks, scrambling forward to bury his head against the bard’s hip, pushing his face into the fabric of her trousers, his hand coming up to rest on her knee.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough and rushed and desperate. “I shouldn’t have-”

She shushes him, still laughing gently, and he feels her hands lift to run through the hair at his nape.

“Honestly, Geralt,” she says. “You seem more torn up by your words than I am.”

Geralt scoffs against her leg, turning his head enough that he can see the ripped edge of her pants against the bandages. He stares down at it, unable to help the clenching in his heart at the thought that she was injured because of him, because of what he had said to her, and how he had made her feel.

“You did a pretty good job at tearing up yourself,” he tells her, instead of saying something stupid like _of course I am_.

She pulls at his hair at the joke, barely hard enough to notice, but doesn’t move to displace him. Her fingers curl through the silver strands, pressing gently against his skull, and through them, Geralt feels a whisper of her laugh.

“Well,” she admits. “I _am_ ever so talented when it comes to shovelling shit. On both myself and others, it would seem.”

Geralt sits up, then, eyes catching hers in the dim light. His brow furrows as he looks at her, his chest aching at the pain in her voice. Guilt, like a ghoul, curls its hand around his heart.

“ _Jaskier,_ ” he breathes.

“Oh, shush, you big oaf,” she says, suddenly smiling. “I’m joking!”

He stares at her until she laughs again, fingers reaching out to caress his cheek, a soft line down the curve of his jaw. He closes his eyes at the sensation, unable to stomach the tenderness in her eyes as she looks down at him.

He had known the bard cared for him, as he had grown, much to his chagrin, to care for her over the years, but to see it so openly as she stared at him, when by rights she should have been glaring daggers at his soul, was all at once too much for the witcher to bear.

“Geralt,” she says quietly, fingers on his neck beneath his ear, her thumb rubbing gentle circles against his jaw. “It’s okay.”

His breath shakes as he exhales, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes, for fear of what he might see. For fear of what he might _say,_ should he be caught in the unforgiving embrace of those blue orbs.

It isn’t okay, and it may never be. Words said in anger were rarely true, especially in his case, but that didn’t mean they didn’t cut like knives at the best of times. He had seen the look on her face, whispering ‘ _that’s not fair’_ in response to his onslaught, knowing in her heart that he was lying but unable to avoid the crushing weight of his words. He had seen the tenseness in her shoulders as he turned away, had heard, had _felt_ , the pain in her words as she bid him farewell, and still, she sat before him, hands caressing his neck instead of choking, words gentle instead of biting. More, in any instance, than Geralt deserved, and certainly more than he could ask of her, after all he had done to harm her.

“I mean it,” Jaskier continues, as if she knows what he’s thinking. “I – Geralt,” she says, and the weight of it, the command in it, forces Geralt to open his eyes and meet hers. The light of the afternoon sun is shining through her hair, forming a halo around her face, which is open and wounded and alight with compassion. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her lips curled in a faint smile, and when she speaks, her voice is as light as a summer breeze.

“I forgive you.”

Geralt doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing. He feels an incomprehensible weight lift from his shoulders, and his clothes all of a sudden feels loose on his back, his muscles settling and relaxing from where they had climbed skyward.

He feels pitiful, embarrassed, guilty beyond belief, but she welcomes him anyway, pulling him up until they are curled together on the bed, her injured leg supported above both of his, her right arm looped beneath him and her left a warm weight on his face. She pulls them until they lie down, crowds his head against her chest and pushes their bodies against one another until there is not even air between them. Her fingers are soft in his tangled hair, her breath wet and hot on his forehead, and it takes him a moment to realise she’s talking, muttering assurances into his skin in time with her caresses against his skull.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she’s saying. “I know you were hurting, and I was just someone to blame. I understand, Geralt, and I don’t care.”

“It hurt,” she admits, voice low, “and if you ever say it again, there isn’t an army in the world that could protect you, but I know you won’t.”

“No,” Geralt confirms, throat raw around the word. “Never again.”

She hums something that might be a laugh into Geralt’s hairline but doesn’t say anything more for a long time.

They must fall asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted from injury and emotion alike, because when Geralt wakes with a start, Jaskier’s face is buried in the crook of his neck, and only the pale light of the half-moon is coming through the window.

Jaskier’s hair is spread across the pillow behind her, strands of it sticking to both her face and Geralt’s, and he sits up slowly, freeing himself from the tight noose of her arms. He lifts her injured leg off his hip, setting it back down on the bed, and shifts backwards until he can sit up on the edge of the mattress. He stays there for a moment, staring down at his boots and wondering what would be worse: staying, or leaving.

“G’ralt?” Jaskier mumbles sleepily, hand outstretched and reaching for him before her eyes are even open. “Y’okay?”

“Fine,” he answers, short. “Go back to sleep.”

She’s awake in an instant, upright and leaning towards him, her hand clutching at his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

He opens his mouth to snap at her, but thinks better of it at the last second, instead turning to meet her gaze. He knows she can barely see him in the faint light, but he can see her, and he is struck silent by the sight of her.

Golden hair hanging loose against her neck, tunic slipping off her slender shoulder and baring white skin to the night, cheeks flushed with wakefulness and worry, eyes frosted with the shadow of sleep.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, because she is.

“I wasn’t aware that was a problem,” she says, after a moment’s pause, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

“No, I meant – I – fuck,” he growls, and turns away.

She laughs quietly at his outburst, shuffling close with a wince, resting her cheek against the curve of his shoulder as her arm slips down to wrap around his waist. Her breath ghosts across his back, warm in the cool air.

She stays there, wrapped around him in silence, for long enough that Geralt thinks she’s fallen back to sleep, and he’s about to turn to lay her down when she speaks.

“You’re beautiful, too,” she whispers, and Geralt’s heart aches.

When he turns, she is there to meet him, eyes wide as she searches his face. Her breath is coming quicker, and Geralt can feel her heart racing when he reaches a hand out to her neck.

“Geralt,” she breathes, as much a question as a command, and he answers in the only way he can.

He leans forward, catching her lips in his, and kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> pls just cry about these two losers with me, good lord


End file.
